


The Road Ahead

by fairywearsbootz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28336938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: Little drabble about how I imagine season 6 could start. Maybe.__________Originally uploaded to Livejournal 2010-05-17. This is the first thing I ever wrote that I posted to any site; the beginning, so to speak. Can't believe it's been 10 years...
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester





	The Road Ahead

The first time it happens, Dean is in a supermarket, going through a shelf of canned tomatoes. Frowning he pushes them around, trying to find the brand Lisa specifically told him to get when through the rack he sees-

Sammy's eyes.

Hazel and slightly narrowed, searching, asking. Peering out from under tightly knitted eyebrows in that look that is so much Sam, Dean's heart skips a beat.

He drops the can in his hand, and it lands on the floor with a dull thunk. His eyes flicker downwards only for the fraction of a second, but when he raises his gaze again, Sam's gone. With two long strides he's rounded the shelf, staring down the aisle.

It's empty, of course. Well, not totally empty - there is an old lady, a pack of noodles in her half-raised hand as she's staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights. But no Sam, because Sam is and will be down under for the rest of eternity, locked in a fiery cage with two douchebag angels and his possessed half-brother.

Hell, not a supermarket aisle in Cicero, Indiana, though right now Dean can't make out much difference between the two.

With a mumbled apology he flees back to his cart, picks up his can of tomatoes and leaves the store.

Only when he's inside the Impala, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and motor-oil and metal, does his heart finally slow down.

*

“Dean,” Sam called out, then threw him the knife. Dean picked it out of the air, using his momentum to slice the demon's throat who was still gripping at his jacket. In a heartbeat he was back at Sam's side, both of them cautiously watching the remaining two demons.

“You're so dead,” the blonde woman hissed, but the slight shaking in her voice betrayed her words.

Dean could feel a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. He snuck a side glance at Sam and saw him smile grimly, too. A quick nod and he charged forward, his brother behind him, having his back.

This was the way it's always been, and will always be, and it was what made this messed-up parody of a life he was leading good.

He doesn't wake with a start. That's only when he has those other dreams, the one with Sammy dying, screaming, begging for his help. Instead it happens gradually, slowly. One moment he's back there with his brother, saving people, hunting things, the family business. Then reality starts trickling into the landscape of his dreams, and the next moment he's back in the dark bedroom of Lisa's house.

Wearily he opens his eyes, sleep still pressing heavily on his lids. It's quiet, the only sound Lisa's steady breathing beside him. Slowly the shadows around him recede as his eyes get accustomed to the dim light, revealing still unfamiliar furniture. There are no dangers in the dark here, no demons, vampires, werewolves, rugarus, no angels, gods or witches. Just him and Lisa and Ben, sleeping soundly in his room down the hall.

He turns around towards the warm body next to him, pulls Lisa closer and buries his head in the crook of her neck.

Just him and Lisa and Ben.

*

The next morning he calls Bobby.

“Singer Salvage Yard?” a gruff voice says, and his anxiety lessens a little bit. Bobby will make things right, because he always has.

“Hey Bobby, it's Dean. Just checking in on you.”

He can hear Bobby sigh through the phone as he pours himself a coffee.

“You're never just 'checkin' in', boy. You in trouble again?”

“There'd be no trouble around here even if I wanted some,” he answers dryly, “but thanks for the vote in confidence.”

Silence at the other end of the line, but Dean can literally see Bobby with his eyebrows raised so high they almost vanish under his ever-present hat.

“Ok, there's one thing,” he finally gives in, “Lately I have- I have this feeling I'm being watched, ok? And yesterday I thought-” he falters for a moment, because now that he's about to say it, it just sounds downright ridiculous. “I thought I saw Sam in the supermarket.”

Another silence, then, incredulously, “In a supermarket?”

“Yeah, in the supermarket,” he repeats, annoyance creeping into his voice. Still he can't help adding, “In the pasta aisle.”

“Pasta, hm?” Bobby says, and is that amusement shining through his voice? “You shopping for actual food nowadays?”

Dean's already opening his mouth for a heated response when the other hunter continues.

“Calm down, boy, I'm just yanking your chain. So, Sam, huh?”

Dean just briefly closes his eyes, but he knows Bobby will still get it.

“Dean, it's been only, what, four months? You spent your whole life with the guy, and considering what happened with him and what the two of you went through before- Jesus, I'd be worried if you wouldn't be seeing things. But that's all there is, you hear me? Just your adrenaline running riot.”

“Right,” Dean says, his eyes still closed as he listens to Bobby's voice, gruff and reassuring. “Right.”

“It'll pass. With time, it'll pass, believe me.” There's a certain sadness mixed in with his last words, and briefly Dean remembers Karen's smile, and the smell of freshly baked pie.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. Suddenly he feels tired, so tired, but he straightens himself with a deep breath, rubbing his free hand over his face. “Look, Bobby, I gotta run, I'll get back to you, ok?”

“Dean-” the other man starts, but Dean has already hung up. He downs his coffee in one long gulp and walks outside, where Ben waits for him to drive him to school. He's sure they can tell his smile is fake when he kisses Lisa goodbye and opens the door of the Impala for Ben to hop in, but they never seem to notice.

They have only known him for six month and then some, and he's just too good a liar for them to see through his poker-face. Only one person who's always been able to read him like an open book, and he's gone for good.

*

The next couple of days Dean tries to keep the weirdness down, he really does. He gets up every morning at 6 a.m., gives Ben a lift to school and then goes to work at a small garage specializing in classic cars. He leaves at 4 p.m., he gets back to Lisa's house, he shops and repairs stuff and tries his best to be a good boy-friend, because she deserves the best, and the kid does, too. And if sometimes, when he's driving the Impala down the street and certain songs start playing, he can almost hear Sam bitch about his poor taste in music or just moan and roll his eyes or laugh his loud, obnoxious, guffawing laugh- well, then he just skips the song and calls it part of a normal healthy grieving process.

That is, until that one evening. Just a normal weekday, the three of them sitting at the dinner table, Ben happily munching away while Lisa rattles on about this annoying woman she has in one of her classes. Dean is only listening with one ear while he sips on his beer, occasionally nodding at the appropriate moments or making encouraging little noises. He's just lifting his bottle to drain the last drops when his gaze falls through the window, onto the small lawn and the lonely street light behind it. Where, in a circle of pale dirty light, stands Sam, and is looking at him.

For a moment Dean's just staring at his brother, mouth gaping and eyes wide. Then he jumps up, the chair tipping and clattering to the floor. Lisa and Ben frown, first at him, then in the direction he's staring, but Dean's already around the table, making a bee-line for the front door. He barges out of the house, and is already on the other side of the street, when he realizes – Sam is gone again.

“Fuck!” he yells, punching the lamp post so hard, he can feel the skin at his knuckles split. “Son of a bitch!” Panting heavily he leans forwards, bracing himself on his knees. “Sammy, you gotta be kidding me,” he groans, but the anger is already leaking out of him.

He hears the clattering of footsteps, and with a sigh he turns around, facing Lisa. As he sees the wide-eyed look on her face, the guilt hits him like a brick wall. Because no matter if this was really Sam or if he's just going crazy, he never wanted to scare her again.

“Dean, who was that?” she asks, slightly out of breath, “Does that have to do with your old job?”

“No, Lisa, look,” he starts, gently laying his hands on her shoulders, “this has nothing to do with you or Ben, you hear me? Nothing will happen to you.”

She hesitates, then nods, and Dean actually manages to muster up a smile. “Good. Let's just go back in.”

They have only taken a couple of steps, when realization hits him.

“What do you mean, 'Who was that'?”

She looks up at him, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Well, the man on the other side of the street. Did you know him?”

“You saw him?” He almost holds his breath, waiting for her answer.

“Of course I did, Ben, too. Tall, brown hair, attractive...” She gives him a teasing smile, but right now, he couldn't care less.

“You saw him,” he repeats, trying to keep a goofy smile from spreading over his face.

“Yes, Dean, we did,” she answers with a roll of her eyes. “So who was it? Some old buddy of yours?”

“Kind of,” he murmurs, still smiling slightly.

Her expression changes from curious to suspicious again, but she apparently decides to let it rest. Then they're at the door and Ben is looking at them with a demonstratively cool expression, that does nothing to hide the anxiety underneath. Again the guilt hits, so Dean ruffles his hair and puts an arm around Lisa's waist as they all walk back in together. The rest of the evening passes in put-on normalcy broken by skeptical glances now and then, but Dean just keeps on ignoring every subtle hint and subtext.

It's easy to do, really, when the whole time his thoughts go, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.

Sam.

*

The next morning he calls in sick and heads straight to the library. There he spends the entire day leafing through each and every book about the supernatural, angels, ghosts and apparitions they have in store. Around noon he briefly considers calling Bobby again, but considering their last talk he decides to wait till he's figured this out at least half-way.

The sun's already setting when he pulls into the driveway, exhausted but not really wiser. He's barely taken out his keys when the door is jerked open and Lisa throws herself into his arms.

“Thank God, you're home,” she sighs into his chest, and he pats her on the back in awkward surprise. She takes a step back, gesturing towards the living room with an odd look in her eyes.

“You have a guest,” she says, and even though her voice is calm, he suddenly has the feeling that she was less concerned about him than about him leaving her alone with weird strangers.

Frowning he crosses the doorstep into the house-

and stops dead in his tracks.

There's a tall, broad-shouldered man facing the opposite wall, intently studying the photos of Ben and Dean Lisa put up there a couple of weeks ago. His clothes have seen better days and his brown hair is a little bit too long, and Dean knows his eyes will seem far too old for his 27 years. For a second he just stands there, one hand still on the door frame, drinking in the sight before him.

Then Sam turns around and smiles.

“Hello, Dean.”


End file.
